The Millionaires (23 page)

“Actually, that’s what we were hoping you could help us with,” DeSanctis said. He took the seat on her left; Gallo took the
one on her right. Neither of them sat straight across, she noticed. Both were on her side.

“I don’t understand…” she began.

Gallo looked at DeSanctis, who slowly slid the file folder on the table. “Mrs. Caruso, sometime last night, someone stole
a… well… a significant amount of money from Greene Private Bank. This morning, when the thieves were confronted, gunfire was
exchanged and—”

“Gunfire?” she interrupted, her voice shaking. “Was anyone…”

“Oliver and Charlie are fine,” he reassured her, cupping his hands over her own. “But in the process, a man named Shep Graves
was shot and killed by the two suspects, who managed to escape.”

Maggie turned to Gallo, who was biting at a blood-red cut on his lip. “What does this have to do with my sons?” she asked
hesitantly.

Still holding her hands, DeSanctis leaned in close. “Mrs. Caruso, have you heard from Charlie or Oliver in the past few hours?”

“Excuse me?”

“If they were hiding somewhere, do you know where that might be?”

Maggie yanked her hands free and shot out of her seat. “What’re you talking about?”

Just as fast, Gallo was on his feet. “Ma’am, can you please sit down?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on! Are you accusing them of something!?”

“Ma’am,
sit down!
”

“Oh, God—you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“
Ma’am…!
”

DeSanctis grabbed Gallo by the wrist and pulled him back into place. Facing Maggie, he added, “Please, Mrs. Caruso, there’s
no need to—”

“They’d never do something like that!
Never!
” she insisted.

“I’m not saying they would,” DeSanctis offered, keeping his voice slow and smooth. “I’m just trying to protect them…”

“That’s funny—because you sound like someone who’s dying to pin them down.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Gallo jumped in. “But the longer they stay out there, the more they’re in danger.”

Right there, Maggie stopped. “What?”

Taking a deep breath, Gallo rubbed the back of his buzz cut. Maggie studied him carefully, unsure if it was frustration… or
real concern. “We’re only trying to help you, Mrs. Caruso. It’s just that, you know how these things go… you watch the news.
When was the last time a fugitive made a safe getaway? Or lived happily ever after?” Gallo asked. “It doesn’t happen, Maggie.
And the longer you keep your mouth shut, the more likely some law enforcement hotshot is going to put a bullet in one of your
sons’ necks.”

Unable to move, Maggie just stood there, letting the logic sink in.

“I know you want to protect them—and I understand your hesitation,” Gallo added. “But ask yourself this: Do you really want
to bury your own children? Because from here on in, Maggie, the choice is up to you.”

Still frozen, Maggie Caruso watched the world blur in a flood of tears.

* * * *

Outside of Maggie’s apartment building, the Verizon van pulled into an open spot right behind a dented black car. There was
no running, or scrambling, or screeching of brakes. Instead, the side door of the van slid open and three men in Verizon uniforms
got out. All three carried telephone company IDs in their right pocket, and Secret Service badges in their left. Their pace
stayed calm and steady as they unloaded their toolboxes. Part of the training. Telephone repairmen never rushed.

As physical security specialists in the Technical Security Division, all they needed was twenty minutes to turn any home into
a perfect soundstage. Gallo said they’d have at least two hours. They’d still be done in twenty minutes. Heading inside, the
tallest of the three shoved a tiny three-pronged tweezer toward the lock. In four seconds, the door was open.

“Phone box in the basement,” the one with black hair called out.

“I got it,” the third said, heading for the stairwell in the corner of the lobby. Only novices put wiretaps in the actual
phone. Thanks to Hollywood, it’s the first place everyone looked.

In the elevator, the other two noticed the rusty metal door and the outdated callbox. Old buildings usually took an extra
step or two. Thicker walls; deeper drilling. Eventually, the elevator hiccuped to a halt on the fourth floor. The door rolled
open and Joey was waiting. She took one look at the Verizon uniforms and lowered her head.

“Have a good night,” the taller one said as he stepped out.

“You too,” Joey replied, sliding around him to get in. As they passed each other, Joey’s chest brushed against his arm. He
smiled. She smiled right back. And just like that, she was gone.

* * * *

“I swear, I haven’t heard from them once,” Maggie stammered, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “I was home all
day… all my clients… but they never…”

“We believe you,” Gallo said. “But the longer Charlie and Oliver are out there, the more likely they are to check in. And
when they do, I want your promise that you’ll keep them talking as long as possible. Are you listening, Maggie? That’s all
you have to do. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Catching her breath, Maggie tried to picture the moment in her head. So much of it still didn’t make sense. “I don’t know…”

“I realize it’s hard,” DeSanctis added. “Believe me, I have two little girls myself—no parent should ever be put in this situation.
But if you want to save them, this is truly the best… for everyone.”

“Now whattya say?” Gallo asked. “Can we count on you?”

I
t takes us almost a full hour to get from Duckworth’s to Hoboken, New Jersey, and as the PATH train pulls into the station,
I carefully nod to the opposite end of the subway car, where Charlie’s hidden amongst the after-work yuppified crowd. No reason
to be stupid.

In one giant push, the human wave of commuters flush from the train and flood the stairwells, shoving their way toward the
street. As always, Charlie’s at the front, bodysurfing his way through the crowd. He moves with ease. Hitting the street,
he continues to pick up the pace. I stay a good twenty steps behind, never letting him out of my sight.

Following Bendini’s instructions, Charlie blows past the New York–wannabe bars and restaurants that line Washington Avenue
and takes a sharp left on Fourth. Right there, the neighborhood morphs. Coffee shops become townhouses… bakeries become brownstones…
and uber-trendy clothing stores become five-story walk-ups. Charlie takes one look and stops dead in his tracks.

“This can’t be right,” he calls out.

Moving in close, I have to agree. We’re looking for a storefront; this is all residential. Still, when it comes to Bendini,
nothing surprises. “Just follow the address,” I whisper as an old Italian man stares curiously down at us from a nearby window.
His TV flickers behind him. “Hurry,” I insist.

Sure enough, three blocks later, we see it: Smack in between a string of row houses is a one-story square brick building with
a home-painted
Mumford Travel
sign right above it. The letters on the sign are thin and gray—and like the brass plaque outside the bank—it’s clearly meant
to be overlooked. Inside, the lights are on, but the only one there is a sixty-year-old woman sitting behind an old metal
desk and flipping through a thumb-worn copy of
Soap Opera Digest.

Charlie goes straight for the doorbell.
Please ring for service.

“It’s open,” the woman calls out without looking up. A push on the door lets us in.

“Hi,” I say to the woman, who still won’t face us. “I’m here to see—”

“I got it…!” a screechy voice calls out in a heavy Jersey accent. From the back room, a wiry man in a white golf shirt pushes
aside a red curtain and steps out to greet us. He’s got slightly bulging eyes and a brushed-back receding hairline. “You got
an emergency?” he asks.

“Actually, we were sent by—”

“I know who sent you,” he interrupts, staring over our shoulders and checking out the street through the plate glass window.
In his line of work, it’s pure instinct. Safety first. Convinced we’re alone, he motions us to join him in the back.

As we follow, I notice the faded and outdated travel posters that cover the walls. Bahamas… Hawaii… Florida—every ad is filled
with big-haired women and mustache-wearing men. The bubble font dates it as late-Eighties, though I’m sure the place hasn’t
been touched in years. Travel agency, my ass.

“Let’s get you started,” the man calls out, holding open the drape that leads to the back room.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” Charlie says, already trying to make nice.

“You got that right,” the man agrees. “But if I’m Oz, who’re you—the Cowardly Lion?”

“Nah,
he’s
the Cowardly Lion,” Charlie says, pointing my way. “Me? I see myself more as Toto… or maybe a flying monkey—the lead one,
of course—not one of those simpleton primate lackeys who stand in the background.”

Oz fights his smile, but it’s still there.

“So I hear you need to get to Miami,” he says, moving toward his desk, which sits in the direct center of the dingy back room.
It’s the same size as the room out front, but back here, there’s a copier, a shredder, and a computer hooked up to a high-tech
printer. All around us, the walls are stacked high with dozens of unmarked brown boxes. I don’t even want to know what’s inside.

“Um… can we get started?” I ask.

“That depends on you,” Oz says, rubbing his thumb against his pointer and middle finger.

Charlie shoots me a look, and I reach for the wad of money stuffed into my wallet. “Three thousand, right?”

“That’s what they say,” Oz replies, once again serious.

“I really appreciate you helping us out,” Charlie adds, hoping to keep it light.

“It’s not a favor, kid. It’s just a job.” Leaning over, he reaches down to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulls two items
out, and wings them our way. I catch one; Charlie catches the other.

“Clairol Nice ’n Easy Hair Color,” Charlie reads out loud. On the front of his box is a woman with silky blond hair. On the
cover of mine, the model’s hair is jet black.

Oz immediately points us to the bathroom in the corner. “If you really want to get lost,” he explains, “you gotta start up
top.”

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m staring in a filthy mirror, amazed at the magic of a cheap dye job. “How’s it look?” I ask, brushing
my newly black hair into place.

“Like Buddy Holly,” Charlie says, peering over my shoulder. “Only nerdier.”

“Thank you, Carol Channing.”

“Bullet-head.”

“Aquaman.”

“Hey, at least I don’t look like all of mom’s friends,” Charlie shoots back.

I check myself in the mirror. “Who’re you—?”

“You two ready yet?” Oz interrupts. “Let’s go!”

Snapped back to reality, we head out of the bathroom. I’m still playing with my hair. Charlie hasn’t touched his. He’s already
used to it. After all, this isn’t the first time he’s changed color. Blond in tenth grade, dark purple in twelfth. Back then,
mom knew he had to get it out of his system. I wonder what she’d say now.

“Stand over there and pull the shade,” Oz says, pointing to the window at the back of the room. On the floor, there’s a small
X taped on the carpet. Charlie leaps for it and jerks down the shade’s cord.

“Blue?” he asks, noticing the pale blue color on the inside of the shade.

On Oz’s computer, the screen blinks on and a digital image of a blank New Jersey driver’s license blooms into focus. The background
for the photo is pale blue. Just like the shade. Grinning at the technology, Oz steps in front of Charlie, digital camera
in hand.

“On three, say ‘
Department of Motor Vehicles
…’”

Charlie says the words, and I squint at the bright white flash.

C
raning her neck skyward, Joey stared up at the thirty-story building on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. “You sure she’s home?”
Joey asked, almost dizzied by the height.

“I just spoke to her ten minutes ago pretending to be a telemarketer,” Noreen said. “It’s past dinner. She’s not going anywhere.”